On the Nature of Daylight
by Aerlinnn
Summary: Five years after the war, it is clear that there is something wrong with the Ministry. It is all there, hidden in the archives, and Hermione will do anything if it means unearthing the truth. Even if it means having to play a part in game with rules everyone hides. AD/HG, Post-War.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story has been in the works for a while, and the entire plot has been planned out. Updates will come either weekly or biweekly.

**As a general warning:** The story will most likely see a change in rating as it progresses. I'll never be too explicit with violence or anything else, but it will deal with some dark and disturbing themes. 'Grey and Gray' morality would be an apt way to describe it.

My thanks to InkwingsInc and Nautical Paramour, whose excellent stories inspired me to start this one.

**Update #1:** Text revised and edited as of 28/12/2020.

* * *

"_If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"_

_(Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)_

* * *

**Tintagel Castle, Cornwall.**

**September 1987. **

Hermione hid her hands within the large pockets of her coat as she walked across the wooden bridge. Seagulls rose up into the air as the wind picked up around her, crying as they flew away from the sharp cliffs of Tintagel island. Beneath her waves broke on the black slate-rock of the jagged coastline, swallowing the jagged rocks and sand which made up the thin strips of beach. Ahead of her, seemingly unaffected by the late September weather, her parents walked calmly; her mother holding a copy of Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_ whilst her father pointed his camera towards their left. Barely visible atop the cliffs beyond them was the main body of the legendary castle; its medieval walls, gardens, and gates promising to bring to life the tales of knights she had read before traveling to Cornwall. Beneath it, a massive, cave-like chasm was slowly being submerged in the rising tide.

Sniffling, Hermione pushed the hood of her coat up further. The rain had been smart and waited patiently for her family to leave the hotel before beginning the intermittent downpour that had been falling on them all day.

"Look, Hermione, the castle!"

Hermione felt her breath leave her as she glanced up to the edge of the island, crowned by the beginnings of the crumbling gate of the castle's courtyard. It was as beautiful as her mother had promised her, if in a worse state than she had imagined. "Why is it broken, mum?"

Her mother smiled sweetly. "It's quite old, I'm afraid, dear."

"Oh." She scrunched up her nose. "Does anyone know how it used to look before?

Her mother shook her head. "Oh, no, I don't think so—though there are always people investigating the site."

It didn't take them long to reach the top of the stairway. Slowly, taking care not to slip on the bare stone, they walked through what remained of the castle's gateway. The path slithered across what little even ground was out in the open, branching into several different strands that snaked their way around the different ruined structures.

Her father, smiling brightly, stretched his left arm and hooked it around her mother's. "Look, Hermione!" he exclaimed, pointing to his right.

Hermione turned to look at the remains of a set of walls. They weren't too close to where they were, but a path on to the other end of the island cut right through them. Though they were in a state of decay they must have been tall and beautiful, once. Splendorous, just like stories said.

"They're really quite impressive, aren't they?" her mother said, walking on. "They must have once been quite a sight."

It didn't take Hermione long to notice that not all of the structures were in ruins, though it didn't seem like her parents had seen it yet. Further beyond, in what must have been the far northern side of the island, a tall, leaning tower seemed to be in good shape. A group of five men stood close to it, far away from any of the other tourists.

Taking a few steps in their direction, Hermione skirted around a puddle and walked away from her parents in order to get a better view.

There were five in total, with four pointing something at the lone fifth man. Though she couldn't make out their clothes properly, it was clear that they were outdated. Worse, they didn't seem to be aware of the rain at all. It was so bad that it was obvious that fifth man, dark haired and tall, was completely soaked.

Hermione turned back around. "Mum, dad!" she called. "What are those people doing there, in front of that tower? It's outside of the path!"

Her parents glanced questioningly in the direction of the tall, grey tower. Dropping his hold on the camera, her father let it hang from his neck. Squinting, he pushed up his muggy glasses.

"What tower, sweetie? There's nothing there."

Hermione glanced back. The tower and the group of people were prominently visible, if slightly close to the cliffs on the island's other end. "That one," she said, pointing towards it. "It's the one that's close to the cliffs."

Her mother frowned. "There's nothing there, sweetie-pie. What group of people are you talking about?"

A sudden gust of wind swept through the island. The seagulls flew further up in response, filling the area with their cries. Frowning, Hermione turned around again. The five men had disappeared.

"Hermione?" her mother called. She was smiling again. "Let's continue walking. I'm sure we can find that tower you must have seen before further down the path—it must be around here somewhere."

o-o-o-o-o

Cheers rang through the crowd as Ron kissed Lavender. Smiling, the blonde woman wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, raising herself on the balls of her feet. Parvati Patil, close behind the bride, dabbed off a tear whilst Harry, standing opposite her, grinned. The cheers grew as the newlyweds broke apart and turned to face the crowd, taking each other's hand before walking down the aisle. Ginny and Molly stood up from their seat and threw rice, smiling widely. Hermione clapped as the newlyweds broke apart and turned to face the crowd, taking each other's hand as they walked down the aisle.

It had been a beautiful ceremony. The entrance had been carefully planned, with bright, colourful spells bursting brightly in the air as the hired string quartet played the meticulously selected music. Ron had been exultant, beaming in eager anticipation from where he had been waiting. Lavender had been radiant when she had appeared a full five minutes later in her dress; a long and floaty piece in satin and lace. Her hair, perfectly styled, falling over her collarbones in an elegant display which made the scars Greyback had given her all but invisible.

Hermione stood up and followed the other wedding guests to the ornate pavilion-like tents. A variety of food had been laid across the majority of the tables within, with flowers and candles decorating the remaining available surfaces.

A delicate arm wrapped itself around her own. "It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn't it, Hermione?"

Hermione turned to look at Ginny. "It really was. Your mother and Lavender paid attention to everything."

"They did, didn't they?" Ginny grinned. "You weren't there to see all of it, but with how that one Christmas went it was amazing to see them coordinate like they did."

"I imagine Ron can't wait for things to return to normal."

"He still has the honeymoon to think of. After that, they'll be moving into the house they bought just south from here." Her eyes suddenly widened, and she abruptly withdrew her arm. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I need to catch Harry before he gives the best man's speech. I forgot to—."

"Don't worry, Ginny. We can always talk later."

The red-haired girl beamed and rushed towards her husband. Hermione brushed the straps of her beaded bag, still with her even after the war, and pushed on towards the crowd of guests.

She smiled as she neared Ron and Lavender. "Congratulations, it was a beautiful ceremony."

Ron smiled back warmly. "Thanks, Hermione. It means a lot."

"Thank you for coming today, Hermione," Lavender said earnestly. "I know we never had the best of relationships in Hogwarts."

"It's really no problem," she said, shaking her head. "I'm happy for you two."

Lavender seemed to be about to say something when the string quartet began to play again. Barely waiting a moment, she swerved around. "Enough standing around. Ron, let's dance!"

Ron groaned and looked at Hermione pleadingly. Before he could so much say a word, however, he found himself being pulled in the direction of the dancing floor.

Still smiling, Hermione glanced at the people around her. Most of her friends had dispersed through the crowd of guests. Only George, standing the edge of the dance floor, was alone.

It didn't take long for the older male to approach her. "How have you been, Hermione?"

"I've been good. I'm working on another law we plan to present on House-elf and Wizard relations." She met George's eyes. His demeanour had changed drastically since the end of the war, though not for the better. "What about you? Ron told me he'd be joining you in the shop soon."

"He will. Having someone to help will be welcome, it hasn't been the same since Fred died." He breathed in deeply. "How have your parents been, Hermione? Has anything new been found?"

Hermione shook her head. "They still don't remember a thing about who they used to be; nothing seems to have had an effect. The Healers at St Mungo's are stuck."

"Nothing has helped at all?"

"The healers are stumped." So was she, for that matter. Nothing had managed to change their state in the five years that had gone by since the war's end.

Drawing in a breath, she glanced at the aurors standing at the edge of the tents. They had been posted especially for the wedding by the Ministry; security—as Kingsley had argued. Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office, was standing the closest to the dance floor. He was a veteran, and it showed in his tall and bulky form. Besides him was Mervyn Wynch—recognizable due to his prominent hooked nose and square face—and Cyril Meakin, both of which had joined the Auror task force in the year Voldemort had been in power. Off to a side, patrolling closer to the Burrow itself, were Roger Davies and Stephen Cornfoot.

Frowning, Hermione recalled a recent Daily Prophet headline. "Have you heard anything more on the sightings in the countryside?"

George's expression soured instantly. "Nothing beyond what has been reported. It's worrying that some Death Eaters are still at large."

"I know Harry mentioned that the department has been working on it intensively. That burnt house…" Hermione bit her lip. "Ron was a part of the team investigating the event, right? It was all people in my department could talk about this week. That, and the werewolves in Scotland."

George looked away pensively. "Lavender—you know how she has been staying at the Burrow lately—was quite worried about it."

Hermione glanced at the golden-haired witch. Given the involvement of Greyback's old pack it didn't surprise her.

"They should have all been killed after the battle, not be treated to the Wizengamot's full legal protection," George said harshly. "Murderers, the lot of them. Had they been executed this would have never happened. Rookwood—." He breathed in sharply. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I think I need some fresh air. Maybe a drink."

"There's no need to apologise, George."

George smiled apologetically. "I'll see you soon, hopefully—mum wants to organize a full family dinner once Ron's back from his honeymoon. Do you think you'll be able to make it?"

"I'd love to. Should I owl Molly about it?"

"There's no need, she'll tell you the date once it's been organised."

It was dark by the time the celebrations drew to a close. Bidding farewell to her friends, Hermione apparated directly into the small apartment she rented within Whitstable's magical quarter. She breathed in with relief as crossed through the apartment's wards. The complicated set of layers she had carefully constructed upon first moving in were exactly as they had been early in the morning, with nothing any different or out of place.

Dropping herself on her living room's single sofa, Hermione looked at the dark, cramped space. Walls lined with bookshelves; a chimney just big enough to allow for floo access; a lone coffee table, its space crowded with ever-growing piles of books…

She leant forwards. The majority were new acquisitions, though a few had been with her since Hogwarts. The first volumes of _Chadwick's Charms_ sat at the bottom of the leftmost pile, with Lumus' _Olde and Forgotten Betwitchments and Charms_ and a precariously balanced stack of parchment resting atop it. Besides them, a slightly out-of-date copy of the Daily Prophet crowned a similar-looking pile.

_DISASTROUS CAMPAIGN CONTINUES_

_Despite public pressure, the ongoing campaign headed by Fausta Thicknesse recently saw an increase in attention when Ricbert Fawley, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, publicly met with the widow of the late Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse. Though Minister Shacklebolt has refused to comment on the issue, his aide, Dolores Umbridge, has called out and criticised Mrs Thicknesse for her use of propaganda, stating that…_

Hermione tore her eyes away from the newspaper and picked up the stack of notes, straightening them before setting them back down. She marched towards her room—a tiny thing at the end of the hall, right by the kitchen—quickly, breathing in with relief as she finally sat on her bed. Crookshanks, recovered at the war's end, was lying atop the covers in a tight circle, seemingly asleep.

Hermione opened her bag and picked up her wand. Flicking it silently, she levitated a silver pocket watch—a piece from her father's youth—towards her bedside table, right by a worn copy of _The Development of Memory Charms_ and the crooked wand she had kept. Following it came a notebook and a small mirror. Leaving her wand on the bed, she took off her heels and zipped off her dress. Looking away from her body as the opaque fabric came off, she put on the long cotton pyjamas she had set aside before leaving her flat; barely catching a glimpse of the carved brand on her left forearm or the purple scar cutting across her chest.

Finally lying down, Hermione picked up the thick book at her bedside table silently cast a _lumos_. Lying back against her pillows, she opened the worn book.

o-o-o-o-o

Walking past the fountain of the magical brethren at the Ministry's atrium, Hermione joined the crowd of ministry employees and entered one of the many lifts lining its walls. She remained silent as the doors closed and it began to move, eventually coming to a stop at the fourth floor. Before too long she was at the main office of the Beings Division; an open hall-like room with rows of paired desks facing a set of offices separated only with clear glass. Walking towards her desk, Hermione hung her bag and overcoat—a warm, dark brown wool piece that reached her thighs—and sat down. Feeling drained after her late night, she allowed herself to sink into the standard-issue furniture. Breathing in deeply, she glanced at her watch before turning to look at the desk paired with hers. Zacharias Smith was late again.

A soft voice spoke up from behind her. "Hermione? Gethsemane wishes to see you. She's in her office."

Hermione looked up at her co-worker. "Did she say what for?"

The woman shook her head. "Not that I know".

"Alright, thank you."

Standing up, Hermione walked to one of the offices at the front of the room and rapped her knuckles on its glass door. Inside, a woman made a quick note on a piece of parchment before answering.

"Come in."

Hermione opened the door. "I was told you wanted to see me?"

The older woman nodded. "I do, Hermione. If you may?" she said, motioning to one of the chairs in front of her desk. "I am afraid it is quite urgent."

"Has a change been made to the project law?" Hermione asked, taking a seat. "Was it rejected?"

"No, no. The law is fine. More than fine." Hermione's eyes followed hers as she glanced to the parchment on her desk—a list filled with names. "I suppose that you have heard about the rightsizing process that is taking place within the Ministry?"

"I have, but I didn't know it would affect this Department."

Her supervisor paused and gestured at the piece of parchment in front of her. "Well, I am afraid that we have been forced to allow you to pursue other career opportunities."

"What?" Hermione's hands dropped to her lap. "Why me?"

"You've been an excellent employee, Hermione. Going forwards, however, someone who is less engaged with conflictive ideas and positions would be better suited for the department."

"What ideas and positions?" she demanded. "I'm the best employee in the department!"

"The Minister's Support Staff have been clear. Mr Blishwick has achieved excellent results in halting the negative growth of the department." Gethsemane breathed in deeply. "We won't simply be letting you go. Minister Shacklebolt insisted on offering you a different position."

Hermione balled her fists. "What position?"

Her supervisor turned around and rummaged through the leather bag by her desk, taking out a few sheets of rolled parchment. Smiling, she handed it to Hermione. "The conditions would be different, but you'd be starting next week."

"Do I need to give an answer immediately?" she asked, glancing at the roll of parchment.

"Oh, Merlin, no! You have until the end of this week. You can communicate your response to it by owl to Mr Blishwick."

"Alfred Blishwick, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic?"

"The very same." Gethsemane leaned forwards and smiled thinly. "I wish you the best of luck in the future, Hermione. I am very sorry to have to communicate this to you."

"Of course," Hermione said tersely. She stood up abruptly, momentarily shocking the older woman. "I will pack the things in my desk, then."

Hermione turned mechanically and made to leave the office, uncomfortably aware of the way that other members of the Beings Division followed her with their eyes. Her lips curled briefly at the sight of her partner's empty desk. She started to pack the stationary, office supplies, and belongings into her beaded bag, and, when the table had been cleared, put on her overcoat and walked out of the office. Mechanically, she opened the sheets of parchment and began to read the alternative job offer. She felt herself pale as she read over the conditions and pay; a part-time position in the archives of the Wizengamot Administration Services, remunerated only at a hundred and twenty Galleons, four Sickles, and eight Knuts.

Her monthly rent was of a hundred and eleven Galleons.

Hermione leaned back against a wall. She would have to get something else entirely or get another part-time job if she wanted to manage to pay her rent. Her savings weren't substantial enough, not after years of trying to fix the memory charm that had stolen away her parents.

Scowling, she clenched her fist around the pieces of parchment and continued walking thorough the corridor.

o-o-o

The utensils rattled as Harry banged his fist on the table, making a few of the other patrons filling the Leaky Cauldron turn sharply in their direction. "That's outrageous!" he shouted. "You're the best person they've got, everyone knows that!"

A flash of anger run through Hermione. "I'm, apparently, too engaged with certain ideas and positions, and thus unsuited for the job," she quoted, retelling Gethsemane's words. "I've even been lucky enough to get offered a part-time position at the archives for a hundred and twenty Galleons, four Sickles, and eight Knuts."

Harry's eyes widened. "A hundred—," he repeated. "That's less than half than what you were already getting! What's Kingsley thinking?"

"I'm not sure it was Kingsley. If my supervisor is to be believed, this was all on the Minister's Support Staff. Alfred Blishwick, particularly".

"You were the entire reason why that House-elf law got passed in the first place. It would've never been approved as a project hadn't you hounded Kingsley," Harry said indignantly. He looked down at his plate and pursed his lips. "Is that it, then? Ministry politics?"

"I can't think of any other reason," Hermione said. "You know how I ranked within my Department. Besides, Zacharias Smith's father has been in the Minister's Support Staff for years."

"And is a good friend of Tiberius McLaggen, from what I understand."

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly. "Then there's Umbridge."

"Umbridge," Harry spat. "How that woman is not in Azkaban is beyond me. The number of times that—." He breathed in deeply. "They must have been out to get you, Hermione. She must have been out to get you."

The corners of her mouth contorted into a grimace. "I know."

"I'm taking it straight to Kingsley," he said loudly. "I don't care what you say. I'm going to take this to Kingsley. It is intolerable."

Her face fell slightly. "I'm not sure he'll be able to do anything if it was the Minister's Support Staff that arranged it. My only options for now are to find something new outside of the ministry or to compliment the position with another part-time job."

Harry shook his head. "Don't say that, Hermione. You know how much Kingsley likes you. If he's told what's going on, he'll do something. You know he will. He'll try to, at least."

"Hopefully, though you know that his hold over the Ministry is still up in the air. Voldemort—."

"Voldemort died five years ago," Harry interrupted, "it's time the Ministry realises that. Umbridge headed the Muggle-born Registration Commission. To have her remain under employment goes against everything we fought for."

"I know, Harry," Hermione said sullenly. "Hopefully he can at least discover what is going on."

"I don't like this, Hermione." Sighing suddenly, Harry leant towards her and ran a hand through his hair. "There's been news in the Auror department I was meaning to tell you, too."

"How bad?"

Her best friend breathed in deeply. "I shouldn't be talking about this too loudly, but it'll likely be published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow." Motioning for her to get closer, he glanced around them. "One of the old Death Eater Gringotts accounts was opened again."

"Opened? Whose account was it?" Her heart skipped a beat. "I thought those accounts had been embargoed following the war."

Harry looked at her grimly. "Yaxley's. The matter apparently wasn't as clean-cut as we were led to believe."

"Has Gringotts volunteered any information so far?"

"None at all, the goblins hold that the entire affair is covered by their usual secrecy laws. We just know that no other Death Eater accounts have been opened."

Hermione leant forwards and rested her chin on her hands. It was unsurprising, given how the precedent was. Gringotts was outside of the Ministry's control. "Yaxley…" she muttered, shoulders tensing. "Do you think this involves the other Death Eaters, Harry?"

"That's what has Robards worried." Harry leant into his chair and ran a hand through his hair again. "Yaxley was one of the few that evaded capture together with Rowle, Travers, and Selwyn. The same thing goes for Greyback. If you factor in the escapees from two years ago…"

"Rookwood, Lestrange, Avery, and Dolohov," Hermione added pensively. It was worrying news. None of those men were like to stay quiet for long, not with access to a Gringotts account. "Then there are the reports on the werewolf packs in Scotland," she added. "It's Greyback's, isn't it?"

"Most likely. Wynch and Davies have been handling the case."

One of the Leaky Cauldron's chimneys suddenly flashed green. A tall figure wearing the tell-tale grey uniform of the Auror task force walked out of it. It was easy to tell who it was, even with the scars distorting the right side of his face—Stephen Cornfoot, a Hufflepuff in their year. His blond hair, messy and unkept despite the bow tying it at the height of his chin, was covered with grime.

He strode towards them quickly, not wasting any time scanning the area around them. "Potter. I'm sorry to interrupt your break, but a new report has just come in."

"What is the report on? Is it serious?"

"I'm afraid so."

Harry nodded grimly and looked back at Hermione. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to stay for much longer."

"There's no need to apologize, Harry." She shook her head. "I'll be seeing you soon?"

"Of course."

o-o-o

It was barely two when Hermione apparated into the old magical quarters of Whitstable, loud _crack_ ringing around her. Closing her eyes, she breathed in, enjoying the crisp scent of the nearby sea. It was a beautiful town; its smaller magical community the main reason why she had chosen it upon finishing her N.E.W.T.s.

Opening her eyes, she began to walk through the tiny street, towards an alleyway half-hidden between two apothecaries near its end. The clacking of her heels echoed as she cut through it, directing herself towards a rickety staircase. Ascending slowly, she pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door at its top. A loud creak reverberated as she swung it open. Shutting the door behind her, Hermione began to walk up a spiralling staircase. The wooden steps groaned as she climbed past the first and second floors decisively, to the flat she had called a home for almost four years now.

She smiled despite herself as she saw the familiar door of her flat. Hermione shut her eyes and breathed in. Standing still, she focused on the area around her. A shiver ran across her spine as she felt her wards, welcoming and familiar. They were intact, like always.

Hermione opened her eyes and unlocked the door, crossing through its threshold quickly. Grabbing the strap of her beaded bag, she had just about taken it off when her eyes zeroed on the chaotic state of the books and parchment stacked on her coffee table. The bookshelves weren't in much of a better state; many tomes were out place, unseemly stacked atop each other, with some having been moved onto the floor.

Her heart began to race. _Someone's been here_, she thought, _but how?_

Hermione drew the wand at her forearm and pressed her lips together. Silently, she focused on her wards again and verified their integrity. She hadn't made a mistake—they hadn't been broken or changed.

Swallowing with difficulty, she pressed her back towards a wall and scanned the room around her once again. "_Revelio_," she whispered, waving her wand.

Nothing happened. Beyond the state of her living room, nothing had changed.

Stepping sideways, Hermione glanced at Crookshanks suspiciously. "_Homenum revelio_."

Hermione's eyes darted up and narrowed on the hall leading up to her room as the tell-tale swooping feeling of the charm rushed through her. Whomever it was that had entered her flat was in there.

Taking her first step forwards, back still to the wall, she advanced slowly towards her room's half-open door. Gently pushing it open, she observed the dark figure standing at its centre.

The intruding wizard was tall, though not enough to reach past her door's threshold. He was wearing slightly tattered dark robes, with a wand holster strapped at the front left of his hip. A thick cloak hung from his neck. A book, likely one of the ones at her bedside table, was held open in his left hand.

Hermione feinted forwards. "Stupefy!"

A jet of red light lit the room. The intruder drew his wand and blocked her spell. Moving minutely, he flicked it in her direction. A white light lit the room. Before Hermione could react, she felt herself stiffen and collapse sideways onto the floor, bag crashing besides her. Her wand fell from her grip and rolled away, barely within her line of sight. Hermione felt herself panic. There wasn't anything she could do if petrified.

"I'll admit that I expected more," he said, eastern European accent curling over the syllables as they cut through the sound of her own hectic breaths. "Though I suppose this makes things more convenient."

The intruder threw the book onto her bed and walked towards her. Crouching down, he picked her wand and placed it inside one of his robe's pockets. Allowing her a sight, for the first time, of just who had broken into her flat.

The proud, broad man standing before her was a far cry from the one who had attacked her at the end of her fifth year. Dark hair waved to his shoulders, with a few, shorter strands falling just short of his eyes. His jaw didn't sport the tangled, unkept beard she could remember, and instead presented a short, neat cut. Whereas then, as during the war, he had been curled and weakened from years spent in Azkaban, the way he held himself in now belied a quiet sense of power.

Nausea grew at the back of Hermione's throat. Beneath her working robes she felt the purple scar cutting across her chest, the remnant of his curse, twinge with pain.

Antonin Dolohov. One the four Azkaban escapees.

The dark wizard pointed his wand at her. "Stay still. I don't want to see a single movement," the Death Eater commanded brusquely. "Finite."

Hermione threw herself sideways. Reaching for her bag, she drew Bellatrix's old, crooked wand and pointed it at the Death Eater in her room. A silent, scarlet spell quickly sent it flying out of her hand. He stepped on her arm before she could reach for it again. Hermione cried out, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

The dark wizard narrowed his eyes. His expression, a veritable stone wall, didn't shift as he put more pressure onto her arm. "Like I said. Stay still," he ordered.

Hermione tried to pull herself away, to no effect. _My wand. Where is my wand?_ _I can't apparate without my wand, _she thought desperately_. _"Why would I?" she rasped. "You're going to kill me!"

Dolohov frowned. Silently, he lifted his boot off her arm and stood back up. "No."

Hermione flinched. "Why else would you be here then?"

The man observed her dispassionately. Silently, he leant forwards and picked up the crooked wand she had just lost. He let out a breath as he examined it, seeming to recognise it.

"Why are you here?" Hermione demanded. Gritting her teeth, she tried to pull herself upright. "Whatever it is, be quick about it!"

Dolohov looked away from the wand with a jerky and abrupt movement that denoted impatience. "I have no interest in killing you. I am here to offer you a deal."

_A deal? _she thought incredulously."I don't believe that." Clenching her fists, she forced herself to meet the Death Eater's dark eyes. "Even if you were, there is nothing you could offer I'd be interested in."

The corners of the Death Eater's lips quirked up slightly. "Really?" he asked, gesturing at the book he had thrown minutes ago. "The _'Development of Memory Charms'_ is a classic, but not something you'll get counter-charms from."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes darted towards the single door leading out of her room; she was closer to it than he was, but she'd never manage to make it out without a wand. "I don't see how that's of any relevance," she bluffed.

"Not even if what you're researching has to do with the Memory Charm you cast on your Muggle parents?"

Bile rose to her throat. Breathing in deeply, she tried to contain the wave of panic she felt grow. No one, not one person beyond her friends or the healers at St Mungo's, was supposed to know about her parents. "How do you know about that?"

The Death Eater ignored her. Picking up the book with a deceptively careless movement, he flicked past a number of pages until he came to a stop midway through it.

The panic quickly turned into anger. "Answer me!" she shouted.

Dolohov turned towards her again. "This," he said, tapping on a single page, "is the only useful commentary you will find in this entire volume on the practical applications of the Memory Charm. Still, it is a step in the right direction by comparison to the other books you have, if insufficient."

"If you harm my parents—."

The Death Eater's eyes narrowed. "Let's make one thing clear," he said, shutting the book loudly. "I couldn't care less about your Muggle family, contrary to whatever it is you believe. I am here solely to offer a deal to you."

Hermione scoffed. She didn't believe him. "And what is it that you are prepared to offer?"

"A solution for the memory charm you cast on your parents."

Hermione breathed in sharply. Her mind began to race. Unprompted, her eyes focused on the blue tome. "Why?" she asked. "What could you possibly know?"

Dolohov smiled. "What you cast wasn't just a memory charm. You erased their very identities." His eyes brightened as he talked, widening with wonder. "It was much more powerful than that. Darker. Older."

"Even if I believed you, why should I trust you at all?"

"A promise made is a promise kept," the Death Eater said gravely. "Without the aid of someone like me, you'll never get your Muggle parents back."

Hermione's eyes darted at the open doorway. He hadn't attacked for now, and, if they kept talking, she might eventually get the chance to run to her chimney and escape through the floo network. "And what would I have to do in exchange?" she asked tersely.

Dolohov regarded her impassively. "Two pieces of information—one for each of your parents."

"Why would you trust me to even help you in return?" she snapped. "You know I'll tell the Ministry I saw you the second I can, and you'll finally be put down!"

The wizard ignored her. Reaching into his pocket, he took out her vinewood and walnut wands. Holding them in his fist, he searched through an inner pocket further, until, eventually, he drew out a dark, pocket-sized book. Smiling wryly, he threw it onto her bed together with her two wands.

"What is that?" Hermione asked. "What are you trying to do?"

"I will not demand an answer now, but you'd do well to consider my offer," he said easily. "If you are interested, come to the White Wyvern on the first of October. Be there at seven in the evening."

Taking a step back, Dolohov raised his wand. A faint _crack_ reverberated within her room as he disapparated away, cutting through her wards as cleanly as he must have when he had broken in.

Hermione felt herself fall onto the floor. Bringing a hand to her face, she swallowed the lump in her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. Seconds later, she stood up again and walked to her bed. Grabbing her vinewood wand, she began to cast the first wards she could think of, not sparing a glance to the book the Death Eater had left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

The witch's lips curled into a sneer as she looked Hermione up and down. Smiling disparagingly, she glanced back down at the piece of parchment. "I am afraid that you would not be a good fit as an assistant at Twilfitt and Tattings, Miss _Granger_."

Hermione's cheeks reddened. "I can assure you that I have ample experience working directly with clients and with formal procedures, Madam," she said obstinately. "I may not have worked in a clothing store directly, but—."

"Be that as it may, Twilfitt and Tattings is currently looking for different qualities in their assistants," the woman said overly sweetly. Smiling, she handed the parchment back to Hermione. "Perhaps another store?"

She grounded her teeth. "I can understand, Madam. Thank you for your consideration."

Turning away, Hermione opened the door brusquely and headed into the warm afternoon enveloping Diagon Alley. Stopping outside the polished exterior of the high-end clothing store, marred only by a few torn posters bearing the portrait of the old Minister for Magic, she forced herself to breathe in deeply. Her first picks, The Ministry Press and Obscurus Books, had rejected her three days ago. The stores she had applied to afterwards hadn't offered her any change in luck, deeming her as either overqualified or not the right fit.

Scowling, she glanced down at her wristwatch. It was nearly four in the afternoon, the time Mrs Weasley had set for dinner, but she still had time to try to try her luck in at least another shop.

Gripping the strap of her beaded bag, Hermione resumed her way through Diagon Alley, keeping to its less crowded edges until she reached Knockturn Alley. Biting her lip, she only hesitated briefly before stepping into the dim and dour street. Walking briskly, she eyed her surroundings carefully, fingers brushing the wand held within the holster at her wrist.

She had just passed by The Starry Prophesier when she saw a sign reading '_Assistant Required'_ hanging in Borgin and Burkes' window.

Clenching her fists, Hermione forced herself to walk forwards. She wanted nothing to do with the ill-reputed shop, but she needed to pay her rent. Whatever reaction she received couldn't be any worse than the ones she had already been given.

A bell rang as she pushed the door open. Bookshelves lined the store's walls, stopping short of the narrow staircase at its far back. A number glass cabinets filled the space between them, their insides cluttered with a myriad of labelled objects. The air was stagnant and musty, with the faintest trace of what she knew to be sulphur.

"Excuse me?" Hermione called.

No one answered. Hermione further into the store, ready to call out again when the floorboards of the floor above her creaked. Soon, the steps of the staircase at the far back were groaning under the weight of a wizard Hermione quickly recognized as Eadgar Borgin.

"Miss Granger," he said gruffly, walking deliberately towards her.

He had barely changed since she had last seen him years ago, when he had kicked her out of the shop. His hair, dark and oily, stuck to the sides of his head as he stooped forwards. "I wanted to ask about the job opening," Hermione asked tersely.

"The job opening?" Borgin repeated.

"Yes. I saw the sign and wanted to apply for the position."

"I can imagine you saw it," the old wizard said cuttingly. His mouth twisted downwards. "I remember you, Miss Granger; both you, and what you have done in the past. Why would a witch such as yourself be interested in the position I seek to cover?

Straightening her back, Hermione looked straight at the stooping man. "I didn't know my reasons were important," she bit back. "I am interested in applying. Isn't that enough?"

Borgin's expression twisted further. "I value my employees, Miss Granger."

Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair and looked away from the greying wizard's eyes. "I have recently come to a situation in the Ministry that has forced me to start looking for a secondary job," she explained. "A part-time shop assistant position would be ideal."

"What sort of situation are we talking about?"

"The terms and conditions of my position within the Ministry of Magic have recently been changed. The salary won't be enough to cover my expenses anymore." Breathing in, Hermione opened her beaded bag and reached for the piece of folded parchment she had been carrying since starting her job hunt. "Would I be able to use my curriculum to apply for the job opening?"

Borgin's eyebrows rose. "Curriculum? I have no interest in your job experience or N.E.W.T. Results, Miss Granger. What Borgin and Burkes looks for in employees is different from what the Ministry and other Diagon Alley shops are interested in." He paused and squinted his eyes, regarding her again. "Not since Caractacus Burke has this been a normal establishment. N.E.W.T. Results can only go so far. What can you offer me, Miss Granger?"

"How will you be able to tell without looking at my past experience?"

"I can imagine perfectly well what your results were, Miss Granger. I even have some idea of what your role at the Ministry entailed. I'm afraid, however, that in hiring individuals I strive to look beyond such official results." Frowning, Borgin gestured at the objects on the tables around them. "I am looking for someone capable of independent thought and reasoning. Someone who is capable of enough focus and dedication to both know the merchandise we trade with and deal with the customers that depend on Borgin and Burkes."

Nodding, Hermione glanced at the area around her. It wasn't anything like the other stores in Diagon Alley. It was strange and cluttered, with the tell-tale, lingering remains of dark magic in the air. Sinister and unusual, it was located in a street that was nothing but dangerous.

_Still…_ she thought, balling her fists, _I don't have a choice_.

A few seconds went by before she finally replied. "I am excellent at research," she said confidently. "I can memorise and discover just about anything, no matter what it may be. I know for a fact that out of the other employees working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures I was the one with the best results. The text in the drafts of most of our recent project laws were my work."

The older man rubbed his chin. "I see," he said thoughtfully, after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps you may have what it takes to fulfil the position of an assistant at Borgin and Burkes, Miss Granger, though I still find it surprising that you would be interested in a store such as this over some of the more open ones at Diagon Alley."

Her eyes widened. "You do?" she asked, feeling her grip on the piece of parchment she had taken out of her beaded bag slip. "Why?"

"No matter what our previous encounters may have been like, Miss Granger, or what your previous affiliations to the Ministry may say of you, it is plainly clear that you have what it takes to succeed in a position here."

Borgin frowned. Feeling shocked, Hermione watched as he turned around and walked to the shop counter. Picking up a quill, he leant forwards and scrawled her name near the bottom of a piece of parchment, next to his own.

"What is your reply, Miss Granger," he asked, looking back at her. "Would you be interested in working at Borgin and Burkes?"

o-o-o

The smell of the food Molly had prepared was still filling the air by the time the family broke apart and went their own way, with the matriarch joining Lavender and Ginny at The Burrow's garden. Hermione followed her friends to the sofas set by the fireplace, preparing herself to reveal just where it was that she had managed to find a job.

A pair of eager looks fixed on her as soon as they sat down close together. "So, you managed to find a job already, Hermione?" Ron asked.

"Just before coming here. It's part-time, in a store near Diagon Alley. I'll be working three times a week." Hermione bit her lip. "There's another wizard working full-time, but I don't know who it is yet."

"That's good, at least." The redhead smiled. "You'll be taking the position the ministry offered then?"

"Most likely," Hermione said grimly. "There is more going on than meets the eye. I can't give everything up and ignore it, not now."

Harry leant forwards. "What store is it?" he asked.

"You probably won't like it." Hermione's eyes darted to her friend's nervously. "It's in Knockturn Alley—Borgin and Burkes."

"Borgin and Burkes?" he asked incredulously.

"Out of every store I applied to, Borgin was the only one to take me seriously. The only one," she said angrily.

Harry pressed his lips together, unhappy. "I know, Hermione, but the people that man knows…"

"I am as unhappy about it as you are, believe me," Hermione said. "Every other storeowner just offered apologies or insulted me on account of being muggleborn. Only Borgin—." She breathed in deeply, attempting to calm herself down. "He didn't even allude to the war."

Ron's eyes widened. "They dared?"

"It's unbelievable." Harry exclaimed, dropping himself back onto the sofa. "This entire thing's unbelievable. You're the best student to have come out of Hogwarts in decades. For them to treat you like that is—."

Hermione remained silent as Harry talked on, feeling grateful for her friends' righteous anger. "The amount he offered as pay surprised me," she said, once things had gone quiet. Leaning back into the sofa, she thought back to the storeowner's offer. "It's more than the Ministry; if I were to work full-time it'd amount to more than the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures paid me before."

"There must be a catch," Ron said. He scoffed. "It's hardly believable. If anyone's a worm it's Borgin."

"Apparently, he believes it necessary to ensure employee loyalty and dedication. I imagine it's to do with their business practices."

"Loyalty?" he huffed. "He provided information on collaborators as soon as Voldemort was out of the picture. It's the only reason the Ministry tolerates him."

"I know," Hermione said softly, "but, if it were true, I can see the logic of it. It's far better in order to ensure you have happy employees." Pausing, she regarded the fire burning within the chimney. "I can still remember some of the trials he declared at, though."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that," Harry said, looking down. His expression soured. "On that topic, can you remember Festus Pyrites?" he asked softly, frowning deeply.

Hermione nodded. She didn't think she'd ever be able to forget how Minister Pius Thicknesse had raged at the Death Eater upon his providing evidence at his trial, or how that very same man had acted as a key witness against his own ex-colleagues. He had been offered a handsome deal by the Auror Office in exchange. At least, that was what the Daily Prophet had reported.

Ron leant forwards. "What happened?"

"Robards has declared the entire matter to be classified but…" Harry muttered, looking away. "He was reported missing three days ago. There was no sign of a struggle in his house; no broken furniture, no signs of spell damage, no blood… Nothing. The ministry wards didn't pick up anything. He's nowhere to be seen."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Missing?" she repeated. "With Death Eaters still avoiding capture that's—." Unbidden, the image of Dolohov's form flashed through her mind, and she looked away from her friends with a scowl. _Could he have…?_

"Hermione?" asked Ron worriedly.

"It's nothing, just—." She breathed in. "I hadn't told either of you this yet, but the other day, when I returned to my flat, Antonin Dolohov was waiting for me inside."

"Dolohov?" Ron said incredulously. "Bloody hell, what did he do?"

"How did he break in? Are you sure it's safe?" Harry asked anxiously. "What did he do?"

"Nothing beyond petrifying me," Hermione said breathlessly. "He said that he was there to make an offer to me. A deal. Once he left I casted detection charms and redid my wards—nothing. I'm still not fully sure how he got in."

"Are you sure?"

Hermione nodded. "He also left me this." Reaching to her beaded bag, she rummaged through it and pulled out the book Dolohov had given her. Its title, _Full History, Cases, Applications, and Variants of the Memory Charm_ glistened under the warm light of the room. "I don't know how he got to know about my parents, but it's clean."

Harry drew his wand and cast a series of charms and counter-curses before grabbing hold of the book. "A book. He really just gave you a book." Glancing at it suspiciously, he opened and flicked through the pages quickly. "This doesn't look legal," he muttered. "I wonder where he got it from."

Hermione nodded. She had read the strange book already, though still not in as much detail as she could have. It was a rare volume on memory charms—one of the best she had ever seen. Though more historical than practical, it branched into some lesser-known variations of the charm which had gone unmentioned in other books she had read.

"It's a commentary on memory charms. As far as I can tell it's been out of print for decades," she finally said. "Its ownership is not illegal per se, but its production and sale are a different matter."

"There must be something more to this," Ron said with a scowl. "Dolohov is—. You can't believe this is all there is, Hermione."

"I don't," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I can't understand why he appeared like he did and offered me a deal just like that, but there must be more to this."

Ron nodded. "The bank accounts and Pyrites," he mused, turning to meet Harry's eyes. "Do you think he's involved?"

"He must be, he was one of the most loyal Death Eaters around. He never denied his involvement with Voldemort. He didn't even attempt the Imperius defence," Harry said forcibly. His frown deepened, and he looked at Hermione gravelly. "Did he say what he wanted in exchange?"

"He did; two pieces of information—one for each of my parents," Hermione confirmed. "He didn't specify about what exactly, but he gave me that book after stating his terms."

"What I don't understand," Ron began to say, "is how he knows about your parents. Did someone at St. Mungo's talk about it? Is someone collaborating with Death Eaters?"

"I'm not sure," she said quietly, shaking her head. "I have an appointment with Alix MacMillan again tomorrow. An update, apparently. Perhaps I'll get to discover something then." Judging by the letter the owl had delivered it hadn't seemed too serious, but one could never tell with official communications.

Harry's frown deepened. "You must be careful, Hermione, especially with your parents. Dolohov hasn't done anything yet, but if he so much as gets a chance he'll—."

The tell-tale taps of an owl's beak against a window rang across the empty living room. The three of them turned sharply to face it, confused at the abrupt intrusion of the bird.

"An owl?" Ron stood up. "At this time of the day?"

"I've never seen it before."

Neither had Hermione, for that matter; not such a large, brown owl. Yet there it was, perched on the windowsill. "It has a parcel," she said, looking at the wrapped box held between the bird's talons.

"Was your family was expecting mail, Ron?" Harry asked tersely.

"Not that I know. Mum didn't mention anything."

He stood up and walked towards the window. The bird flew into the room as soon as it had been opened and dropped a large box onto his hands. It didn't land on any furniture, and, turning smoothly mid-air, it flew back out.

Ron walked back towards them. "It's quite heavy," he said.

Harry drew his wand and casted a number of spells silently, some unfamiliar to Hermione. A full minute went by. "Nothing," he said. "There are no curses on the box or its contents."

"Should we open it?" Ron asked, looking at the box suspiciously.

"Yes, just to make sure it's safe. If it's a delivery for Mr or Mrs Weasley we can apologize later."

Harry and Hermione leant forwards as Ron tore the coarse brown wrapping paper open, revealing the strange package to be nothing but a simple delivery box. The redhead pulled its lid open in a single, fluid move which stopped at the sight of a pile of feathers.

"They're covering something," Harry said.

Ron tore through the remaining wrapping paper. Slowly, the patchy and prickled skin of what unmistakably was a featherless owl came into view. It was covered in dried splotches of blood.

Hermione's eyes darted towards the carcass of the dead animal. Her heart began to race. _Pigwidgeon. That is definitely Pigwidgeon_, she thought. "Ron?"

Her friend didn't respond. Standing up abruptly, box in hand, he strode out of the living room. Behind him, Harry followed.

o-o-o-o-o

St Mungo's fourth floor wasn't too different from its foyer. The crowd of wizards filling the bright room was sparse, with only a few sporting disfigurements or obvious spell damage. Around them, healers in lime-green robes walked between groups of people, asking questions and making notes on clipboards.

Readjusting the strap of her bag, Hermione began to walk down the single corridor, directing herself towards Section B of the Janus Thickey Ward. She navigated the different turns automatically, not needing to think about her destination after years of visits. A young witch, slender and with dark, brown hair, was standing outside Alix MacMillan's office by the time she arrived. It was Tracey Davis—the assistant who had, quite by chance, been assigned to the healer in charge of her parent's case.

Her old schoolmate smiled sweetly. "Granger? You're early today."

"I am," Hermione said, nodding stiffly, "Is it alright? I can wait if necessary."

"Don't worry about it. Healer MacMillan's expecting you."

Davis turned and opened the office door. Hermione followed behind her, entering the now-familiar room.

It had changed very little since her first meeting with the healer almost five years prior, upon her return from Australia following the war. Though small, it was deceptively spacious, with its white floor and walls giving the illusion of space that truly didn't exist. A single bookshelf stood at a side, filled with magical periodicals specialised in the healing arts. Besides it, at the room's centre, a birch desk with two small plush chairs in front of it occupied the majority of the space. It was here that Alix MacMillan—the mother of the boy who had been in her year—was sitting. Her hair, as blonde as her year mate's, was kept in a neat knot at the back of her head.

Alix MacMillan smiled as she entered the room, her expression gentle and welcoming despite her tense posture. "Ah, Miss Granger. I was hoping to see you."

Hermione sat in front of the healer. Behind her, Tracey Davis closed the door and moved to stand at one of the room's sides. "I was told you there had been news?"

"Ah, yes. There has been an update in your parent's case."

"An update?"

"Yes, though I'm afraid it isn't good news, Miss Granger." Alix smiled gently. "A review of the long-term cases managed by this department took place recently. There is no easy way to say this, but I am afraid this review included your parents' case."

"Included them?" The palms of her hand began to get clammy. "In what way?"

The healer pursed her lips. "It has been decided that your parents' case is to be discontinued, Miss Granger."

"Discontinued?" Hermione cried. "I thought they were making progress after the examination that was done last month!"

"I dislike the decision that has been taken but given the fact that they are muggles and, medically-speaking, functioning perfectly, it has been decided that there is no case to be examined at all." Alix MacMillan shook her head. "The heads of the hospital are all terribly sorry, but the case has been too much of a drain on St. Mungo's resources."

"Is there any way to appeal this decision?"

"I am afraid not, Miss Granger," Alix said softly. Somewhere behind her, Tracey Davis moved to stand beside her. "The decision to examine these cases was undertaken in light of a change in policy owing to the cuts in funding. Only witches and wizards may be treated at St. Mungo's for a period of time exceeding four years."

Hermione leaned back. Blinking rapidly, she looked up at the office's pristine ceiling. Distantly, she noticed her hectic, fast breaths. "Why?" she finally managed to ask, after a few seconds had gone by. "That's hardly—."

"Miss Granger," the healer interrupted, her voice the same modulated and pleasant voice as before. She bent forwards and rested her elbows on the desk. "It isn't a matter of how the case has progressed. Were they were wizards it would be different, but given how nothing has worked until now…"

The older woman stopped. Turning to face Tracey Davis, she gestured something slowly. Her schoolmate nodded and picked up a folder filled with parchment, which she handed to Hermione with a smile.

"I am very sorry, Miss Granger, I truly am, but there is nothing we can do," the healer continued. "Given the situation, I suggest you consider yourself lucky that they can function normally in society. The strength of the memory charm they suffered was considerable."

"I wasn't informed of this. To change the state of the case after so long—." Hermione's hands tensed around the folder. "What am I supposed to do?"

"The folder Tracey has given you contains all of the research we undertook related to your parents, as well as the information pertaining to their case. Protocol dictates we destroy it given the discontinuation of the case, but we thought it would be better for you to have it." Alix MacMillan smiled and gestured at it. "I hope it is of use to you, should you decided to continue investigating the matter by yourself."

Forcing herself to breathe in slowly, Hermione looked back at the healer. "Is there is something that can be done? There must be a way to have the case reinstated."

"Like I said, Miss Granger, I am truly sorry; but the decision has been made." The older woman leaned back into her chair. "I hope that you manage to find a cure for the memory charm you cast during the war, though you should know that, at this point, my professional opinion is that recovery is unlikely."

Hermione rose from her seat. "How dare you?"

Alix raised her hands, as if attempting to pacify her. "I merely stated my professional opinion as a healer, Miss Granger. However much I regret it, there is nothing more to discuss that isn't contained within that folder." Turning her body more fully she looked at Tracey Davis, impassive at her side, and gestured towards the door. "If you could call the next patient in, Miss Davis? Thank you."

Hermione felt her heart drop. "Thank you for your help," she forced herself to say. She wouldn't give up. There was bound to be something she could do.

Pressing her folder against her chest, she began to walk towards the office's door. Besides her, Tracey Davis followed, silent. Stopping abruptly, she turned back towards the healer as a single unbidden thought flashed through her mind.

Dolohov had known about her parent's case.

Alix smiled, but the impatience building underneath was clear. "Yes, Miss Granger? Is there something else you wish to ask?"

Hermione gathered her thoughts enough to ask the question that had tormented her since the Death Eater had appeared in her flat. "Do I have a guarantee that the details concerning the case have been kept secret?"

"Of course, Miss Granger. All details pertaining to the cases St. Mungo's handles are treated with utmost confidentiality," the healer answered drily. "Only Davis and I have had full access to the case."

Hermione's eyes widened. That couldn't be true, or, if it was, it only meant that Dolohov had found a different way to access the information. The only question was how. Did the fugitive Death Eaters have a way to enter St. Mungo's undetected, or were employees passing on information?

Not giving away any of her inner turmoil, she nodded silently and opened the door. She walked back through the corridors absentmindedly, only distantly aware of how the crowds of people going through the fourth floor. Barely noticing the lift's downwards movement, she pressed the folder against her chest and resumed her way out of St. Mungo's in a daze that lasted until she had exited building completely.

A lump caught in Hermione's throat. Drawing in a shaky breath, she felt for her bag and placed the folder inside it. Breathing in deeply, she forced herself to think through Healer MacMillan's words. Her parents' case had been discontinued, yes, but she had their file. She only needed to research more. Dedicate more of her time.

Was what Dolohov had said true, though? Had she been going about it wrong?

A rush of anger coursed through her at the thought of the foreign man. Her wards had been untouched, and she hadn't found anything strange inside her flat. Nothing to indicate an ulterior motive of some sort. Worse yet was how his appearance coincided with the dark news Harry had shared and the horrifying state in which Ron's owl had been delivered to his family home.

Tightening her jaw, Hermione opened her bag and searched for the dark volume the Russian wizard had given her. Opening and flicking through it, she scanned the variety of diagrams and theoretical arguments surrounding the Memory Charm before shutting it loudly.

It didn't matter; nothing did. She only had to read through her parent's file again, and later, prepare for her new role within the Ministry. There was no need to rush ahead blindly. Not with a man as dangerous and untrustworthy as Dolohov.

It was impossible for the man not to be involved in some way. Ron was right, there had to be something more going on. Something big.

o-o-o-o-o

Hermione cut through the hallways of the second floor quickly, her heels clacking against the marble floor. It was drastically different from her old department. Its hallways were wider, their flooring set in white marble rather than the dark, polished wood she had grown used to. The doorway that greeted her upon arrival at the archives' sub-department of the Wizengamot Administration Services was no less impressive than the rest of the floor. It was an open arch flanked on each side by a set of columns that rose up at its sides, meeting the ceiling. A granite tablet with the words _veritas aequitas_—truth and justice—loomed above it, dominating the entrance.

Drawing in a breath, Hermione stopped beneath the archway and allowed herself to contemplate the full breadth of the room. It looked splendorous. The floor plan featured a number of separate offices with embellished wooden doors. Portraits lined the walls, depicting a number of witches and wizards in archaic-looking robes. At the back, a number of windows offered a clear view of the ministry's atrium and its statue of the magical brethren.

"Excuse me, are you Miss Granger?"

Looking to the side, Hermione met the eyes of the middle-aged witch who had addressed her. She was sitting behind a large desk by the room's entrance, wearing some of the most formal black robes she had ever seen.

"I am." She smiled. "I was told to come here in order to start my new position."

"That you were," the witch replied curtly. "Mr Fawley is currently meeting with a member of the public, but he wished to meet you in his office."

"Ricbert Fawley?" she repeated, "the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?"

"Of course. As the official head of our department, Mr Fawley always welcomes our new employees," the witch said. Turning slightly, she pointed at one of the offices at the front of the room. "He's right ahead. You will have to wait for a few minutes, though I do not think it will take too long."

Hermione nodded her thanks and walked towards the office. Taking off her long brown overcoat, she sat down on one of the plush chairs lined against a wall. She only sprang up when the office's heavy wooden door finally opened, revealing two men. The first was an unfamiliar old wizard, most likely Ricbert Fawley. Behind him followed a young, blond man she hadn't seen since the war

The old wizard spoke with an appeasing, if sad, voice. "I am sorry, Mr Malfoy, but if your request wasn't approved, I am afraid that you cannot search for the information you seek in the archives."

Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "This is outrageous," he said irately. "I should have access to the records."

"I do personally agree with you, Mr Malfoy, but I truly cannot do anything beyond what we already discussed," the old wizard replied. "However, should you get an acceptable signature on your request I will be more than glad to provide you access. As it is, my hands are tied."

"We both know that will never be allowed to happen under the current Minister's aide."

The old wizard grasped his hands together. "Miss Umbridge's review of your case, though unfortunate, is not the end of the road. Mr Malfoy, I can assure you there are still other avenues at your disposition. Don't give up hope."

Draco nodded tersely. "Thank you for your time, Mr Fawley. I appreciate this."

"I am at your disposition should you need any more advice, as you know."

"Of course."

Draco turned to leave, only to stop abruptly as he saw her. Paling slightly, he looked at her silently for a few seconds before offering a polite, if tense, nod. Startled, Hermione replicated it and observed silently as he started walking away.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned away from her ex-classmate and faced the older wizard. "Yes. Mr Fawley, right?" she asked, slowly taking note of his appearance.

He was older than she had initially though, judging by the wrinkles on his skin, and stood not much taller than she herself did. His hair, a silvery white not quite like Dumbledore's own, fell down to his chin in straight, neat lines. A pair of thin spectacles rested on his nose, hiding away his eyes slightly.

The wizard smiled and gestured towards the office. "Yes. I was expecting you, Miss Granger, please do come in."

She nodded and entered the office, taking a moment to observe the grand space as Ricbert Fawley closed the door behind them. Bookshelves lined most of the walls, each overloaded with files. A desk with several piles of parchment and grey folders dominated the centre of the room, with two plush bright-red leather seats set directly in front of it.

"Please have a seat, Miss Granger," the old wizard said with a smile, gesturing at the seats before walking around the table and sitting on a worn-looking armchair.

"Thank you." Taking a few steps forwards, Hermione sat on the right-hand seat and placed her overcoat and bag atop her lap.

It didn't take long for the Chief Warlock to speak. "It is a pleasure to see you here today, Miss Granger. I believe you were the person in charge of the Amendment to the House-Elf Charter of Rights the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures prepared?"

Her face lit up at the memory of the bill she had had the chance to work on. "Yes, I was trusted with its drafting."

"I recently had the chance to read the text, Miss Granger. It was great work. I dare to say that the department has suffered a great loss with your untimely departure." Fawley crossed his arms at his chest. "I'm pleased to have someone of your calibre here with us, I foresee a bright future ahead of you."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Onto the matter at hand, though" Fawley said decisively, leaning forwards. "I presume you read the letter with the offer which was given to you?"

"I did."

"Very well, your position will require little explanation then," he said, smiling. "As you know, you will be working within the archives themselves, sorting new files and entries."

Hermione nodded, recanting the parchment she had been given when she had been fired. "Yes. As well as putting together the requests made by Wizengamot members of private witches and wizards of information they may wish to access."

"Precisely," the Chief Warlock confirmed. "Though it may not sound like much, it is work such as this which is at the very foundation of the Ministry, Miss Granger." He glanced down at the desk and pulled up a sheet of parchment. "Should you need it, here are the details relating to the post once more."

"Thank you," she said, taking the piece of parchment. Quickly reading over it, she folded it and placed it within her bag.

"Now, if you want, I can take you to the office of the witch who'll be your direct supervisor. She should show you around and tell you where everything is," he paused briefly, standing up. "I do believe that she is around your own age. She joined us after the recovery of the Ministry at the end of the war. Very dark days, those."

A few knocks rang within the room, making them both turn around. Before Fawley said a word the door opened, and three men Hermione only knew from Daily Prophet articles and Ministry hearsay came in. First was the man she knew to be Alfred Blishwick, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic; a middle-aged man with dark hair streaked with grey and a clean-shaven face. He was holding a folder of some sort against austere working robes. After him was Hannah Abbot's father, the Senior Court Scribe of the Wizengamot. Tall and stout-looking, he had the same facial features her classmate had once had, greying blond hair merely shades off her own. A bright silver chain, clasped from a button of his inner robes, displaying an elegant pocket watch as it hung by his pocket.

Behind them both was Cormac's uncle—Tiberius McLaggen; a Ministry veteran who had found himself in more positions of departmental authority than she could remember. The tall, greying man with hard eyes was one of Kingsley's advisors, though the job title understated the experience and sheer political prowess he possessed. He had graduated Hogwarts on the year Grindelwald had been defeated, quickly moving on to work at the Ministry. From there he had been the British Representative to the International Confederation of Wizards for decades, as she had discovered during her final year at Hogwarts at the war's end. A position which had been inherited, against all odds and to the outrage of many, by his brother—Cormac's father.

Tiberius entered the office slowly, silent and unreadable by contrast to the two more expressive wizards who had preceded him. Fawley didn't meet his eyes.

Alfred Blishwick, the youngest out of the three, was the first to speak. "I hate bringing this to you again, Ricbert," he said, gesturing widely with his folder, "but Robards has brought up the werewolf issue in the north again."

"The werewolf issue—." Fawley's expression dropped. "I already made my position on the proposed solution known."

Oeric Abbott shook his head. "Ricbert, I'm sorry, but you know something needs to be done. The Prophet has been eating us alive."

The old wizard narrowed his eyes. "You all know my position on this matter."

Blishwick's eyes widened. "Ricbert, innocents are—."

Abbot placed a hand on Blishwick's arm, quieting the man. "Did you read the interviews that were published this weekend?"

Fawley's expression twisted into something resembling anger. Before he could reply, however, Tiberius stepped forwards. "Gentlemen," he said in a surprisingly soft voice. "Though we all agree that this is a most pressing matter, perhaps we should remember that there is an employee who is getting held up in our discussion."

Fawley's eyes widened comically. "I am very sorry, Miss Granger," he said apologetically, "but it seems I will be getting held up in a meeting."

"It isn't a problem," Hermione said gently. "I can go to meet my new supervisor alone. Where can I find her office?"

"I wish I could introduce you myself, but I suspect this will be lasting quite some time." The older wizard sighed and glanced at the door. "You will find the office at the end of the first corridor you will see when leaving this office, to the left."

Alfred Blishwick smiled at her politely. "I am sorry for interrupting your meeting like this, Miss Granger; urgent ministry business, as it were."

Hermione forced herself to smile at the Senior Undersecretary. He had been the one approve the decision to fire her from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. "It's not a problem."

Still smiling, she thanked Fawley before walking out of the office and through the corridor he had mentioned, keeping an eye out for the office the older wizard had indicated. It didn't take her long to reach the office. Knocking on its polished wooden surface, Hermione waited patiently. A few seconds went by before she heard the scraping of a chair.

"Come in," a feminine voice said.

The office was tinier than Fawley's. Its walls were mostly bare, with only a few bookshelves hiding the room's polished walls. At a side of the room an oak desk occupied most of the space. Sitting behind it, with the same distinctive curly, reddish-blonde hair she could remember, was Marietta Edgecombe.

The young woman's expression soured as soon as their eyes met. "Ah. Granger," Marietta said, looking back down at a piece of parchment on her desk. "I was told you would come."

Hermione's eyes were quickly drawn to the jagged scars spelling 'SNEAK' across her face, badly hidden beneath a layer of makeup thick enough to make the otherwise near-transparent hairs of her cheeks visible. Flattening her lips, she stepped forwards. Just how unlucky could she be?

"Mr Fawley told me to come here for the job," she only said.

"Yes," Marietta spat. "You'll be working under me, it seems. Funny coincidence, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry if I am late. Mr Fawley—."

Marietta waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, that doesn't matter. You can go start immediately in the archives."

"Pardon?"

The witch's eyebrows pressed into a deep frown. "Start, Granger. At the archives. You can understand that, right?"

Hermione forced herself to breathe in deeply. Losing her temper wouldn't be of any help. "What will I have to do?"

Marietta waved at the door. "Go to the main archives floor and sort the new arrivals. Once you finish, return to me."

"Main archives floor?" she said indignantly. "I don't know where it is. How it is organised?"

"None of that attitude here, Granger," the other witch said with a sneer. No matter what the unfortunate events between us in Hogwarts were this is a serious working place."

Gritting her teeth together, Hermione forced herself to nod. "Could I have some directions, at least?"

Looking back at her desk, Marietta waved her hand again. "I'm sure that someone as bright as you will have no trouble finding its location. Don't disappoint me."

Hermione nodded again and turned to leave the room; fists clenched tightly. Closing the door behind her, she stormed down the hallway.

* * *

**A/N: **I'd like to thank everyone that has followed, favourited, and reviewed this story so far. I wasn't expecting quite the reaction the first chapter got, but it's been great to see that it was enjoyed. Once again, all the errors are my own and thank you for reading!

Chapter three will be up in a week, with more plot developments to add to what happened in this chapter. No Dolohov in this one, but he may appear again fairly soon.

**Update #1:** Text revised and edited as of 29/12/2020.


	3. Chapter 3

Her skin was cold and clammy when she awoke. The bedsheets on her bed were a tangled mess. Hair clung to her forehead and neck. Sweat drenched her pyjamas. Moonlight streamed through the single square window of her room, offering a dim view of the building next door's brick wall.

The scar on her chest hurt.

Hermione pulled up the top of her pyjamas and bared her chest to the cold air of her room, her heart still racing. Biting her lip, she looked down at ugly mark marring the pale expanse of skin. It was barely any better than it had been whilst healing. It was still starkly visible, its jagged edges and strange, purple colour an ugly and terrifying reminder of the events which had taken place at the end of her fifth year in Hogwarts.

A sudden dip in her mattress saw Hermione reaching sideways to pick up the large body of her cat. Meowing softly, Crookshanks curled up atop her bare skin. Hermione gently scratched one of his ears, allowing herself to sink back into her pillows. Drawing in another shaky breath, she ran a hand through her hair, attempting to straighten it.

She wouldn't be able to fall asleep again, not after this.

Moving Crookshanks, she pulled herself up from the bed. Strapping the wand holster at her bedside table onto her forearm, she grabbed her wand and made her way to her kitchen. Turning on the lights leading up to the small, outdated room she opened a series of cupboards and began to prepare herself a mug of coffee.

Minutes later Hermione leant back into her sofa. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to take in the sheer quiet and peace of the room, attempting to dispel the lingering flashes and images of her dream. It had been the second one this week. The latest in what now was a longstanding pattern.

It had felt terrifyingly real, it always did. The dark corridors of the Department of Mysteries, twisting and turning strangely as she ran through them. The smell of magic, heavy and charged. The distant sounds of shouts and screams mixing in with that of her own gasping breaths. She had been alone, just like she always was when she tried to escape the dark shadow of an enemy following behind. Glimpses of a silver mask and dark, heavy robes the only things in sight.

Reopening her eyes, Hermione pushed herself up and reached for the dark book which the man responsible for the scar on her chest had given her. Its title glistening temptingly under the electrical light of her living room.

The _Full History, Cases, Applications, and Variants of the Memory Charm_ had proven to be as interesting upon a second read as it had in her first one, if not more so. The rare volume was better than the small collection on memory charms she had amassed since the war's end. It had proved to be, if dark, more detailed and informative than anything she had seen. How Dolohov had known to give it to her was anyone's guess, but the meaning of the gesture was clear even through the sheer oddity of their encounter. If she wanted to heal her parents, she'd need his help no matter what she thought of his price.

Clenching her jaw, Hermione slammed the book shut and set it to her side. Springing up from the sofa, she walked towards one of the bookshelves encircling the room's walls. She had bought most, if not all, of the specialized section on Memory Charms offered at Flourish and Blotts, as well as much of the catalogue Obscurus Books and The Ministry Press had sent her. Her research project had taken her through various commentaries and treatises on the working of memory charms and countercharms. If there was someone that knew about the subject beyond what the healers of St. Mungo's knew it was her.

Hermione huffed out, frustrated, and drew out two titles she had found useful in understanding the scope of what she had done in order to save her parents—Waffling's _Advanced Magical Theory_ and the more dubious-sounding _Curses and Counter-Curses_. Once they were secure under her arm, she picked up the folder Alix MacMillan had given her a days ago and walked to the circular dining table set in a corner of the living room. Taking a seat, she placed the books on the table and opened the folder, flicking through the numerous pages and reports on her parents' treatment quickly.

Though her parents had been allowed to reside outside of the hospital over their being able to function normally in society, the sheer number of countercharms and potions that had been attempted by the healers at St. Mungo's was a startling sight. The most commonly known countercharms and potions had been the first to be used, as shown within the first pages inside of the folder, to little effect. The experimental and rarer cures which had followed after them, though more promising, had not managed to make much of a difference. Her parents remained, for better or worse, in the same state in which she had found them.

Flattening her lips, Hermione shut the folder. Whether she wanted to admit it or not she was stuck. The folder which Healer MacMillan had given her only really served as a compendium of what hadn't worked until now, much like her collection of books.

If she wanted to heal her parents she'd have to research far beyond what the healers at St. Mungo's had attempted, but where could she start?

Leaning back into the chair, she glanced backwards, at the book the Russian wizard had given her. A rush of anger ran through her at the sight of its cover. Why was it that it was the single most useful thing in her possession, a full five years after the war's end? What did the Death Eater know about that she had missed?

Clenching her teeth, Hermione opened one of her books again and began to flick through its pages in search of something, anything that could be of use.

Nothing.

Shutting it forcibly, she pushed it away, trying to resist the temptation that was Dolohov's book. She didn't want to consider the offer he had made, but she couldn't deny that she had very little to work with at the moment. Particularly given the news she had gotten from St. Mungo's.

Hermione bit her lip. _What information does he even want in return?_

She didn't have access to anything beyond sensitive information related to the war and the Order of the Phoenix, and the Death Eater had to know that she'd never willingly give those away. It had to be something else—but what?

Hermione rose from the seat and walked to a nearby bookshelf. Absentmindedly, she ran a finger over the spines of the various books held within the warped shelves. She didn't like how little she knew at all, particularly given everything that was going on, but it was clear that the Death Eater wouldn't be forthcoming unless she accepted his offer.

_I have no guarantee that he will actually cure my parents_, she reasoned, mentally running through the different options laid before her. _Nor that the information he wants in return won't harm my friends._

The last part was what raised the biggest problems. Dolohov was bound to be involved in the events Harry had told her about. The open Gringotts accounts, Pyrites' disappearance, and Pigwidgeon's death couldn't be isolated events. Still, he had hit the nail in the head when he had said she was stuck. The book he had given her proved that amply.

Unbidden, a thought ran through her mind. Harry wouldn't like it, but, perhaps, this was an opportunity to gain information on Dolohov and the other escaped Death Eaters. Any help gained on her parent's case would be a boon—so long as he didn't attack them, she had nothing to lose. As for whatever information Dolohov were to demand of her, she could always refuse to hand anything overly damaging or lie.

Clenching her jaw again, Hermione picked up another book and returned to the table. The least she could do was think about it. Even Harry would have to agree on the value of the opportunity laying before her.

* * *

Marietta was at the department's entrance when Hermione arrived in the early morning. Not bothering to greet her, the older girl stood still as she stared at the middle-aged witch waiting in front of Ricbert Fawley's office, as did a few other employees distracted by the same thing.

Hermione remained silent as the older woman was greeted by Fawley. It was hard not to recognise her, not with the near-constant reports the Daily Prophet ran on her longstanding campaign—Fausta Thicknesse, the wartime Minister for Magic. She looked younger in person than in the Daily Prophet's cover pictures, though the grey hair mottling her dark hair and the wrinkles left no questions as to her age.

Marietta huffed and shook her head. Her lips quirked up into a sneer. "There she goes again. It's like she never gets tired."

Hermione looked at her boss. She was wearing slightly less makeup than the first time she had seen her, allowing a clearer view of the scars on her face. "Does she come here often?" she asked.

"Does she come here often?" Marietta repeated. Her sneer deepened. "Of course she does. Just this month alone she has dropped by Fawley's office five times." Her face twisted as Fawley allowed Mrs Thicknesse into his office. "She keeps insisting that her husband was under the _imperius_ curse throughout the entirety of the war, as if her guilt hadn't been proven in the trials amply enough. All those witnesses—. Getting in the way of everyone's jobs—."

Huffing again, the older girl turned to face her. "Which reminds me about the fact that you should be in the archives, Granger," she said tersely. "There are new arrivals awaiting sorting."

Hermione clenched her jaw. "Of course. In the reception area?"

Marietta smiled. "Where else?"

Hermione walked across the reception area. She smiled at the few co-workers she had met on her first day on the job, ignoring the feeling of frustration welling up inside of her, and began to make her way towards the Ministerial archives.

It was only after five minutes of navigating the twisting set of corridors that she reached the ornate double doors of the archives. Dark and carefully polished, they had a prominent set of charms and wards layered atop them which prevented access from anyone without a permit.

Pushing open the doors, she stepped into the massive hallway that served as the general collection of the Ministry's archives. It was completely different from the rest of the department. It was cold, far colder than any other level of the Ministry she had been at. There were no windows. Its walls, painted a dull grey, were almost completely covered with rows and rows of compact metallic shelving. The lights, all fixed to the ceiling, barely shone brightly enough to distinguish clearly the labels on the files. A strange scent akin to ozone lingered in the air, likely due to the heavy wards protecting the rooms.

Hermione walked across the edges of the room and crossed the open archway that led into different sets of rooms dedicated to documents of various security classifications. Some, particularly those which contained documents with the highest security level, had files locked under charms and wards of their own.

She breathed in easily once she reached the very end of the corridor. Pushing open a simpler-looking door, she entered the small room that served as the arrivals area for new files. It was sparsely decorated, containing only a large set of shelving units designed to hold new arrivals. The destination of each of these files was differentiated only by the parchment magically stuck to their sides, indicating the security level of the file and its official title.

Kneeling down, Hermione quickly began to pick up the files already lined up within the shelves. Though there weren't as many as on her first day there were still a fair few, a number of them containing the newly filed records from the Wizengamot. She was about to pick a few of them up when a charmed paper airplane flew through her peripheral vision. Unfolding itself in front of her, she quickly recognized the looped handwriting of Marietta.

Fawley wanted to see her.

Breathing out heavily, Hermione stood back up and made her way to Fawley's office. The door was open when she arrived, with no sign of the woman she had seen entering previously.

The kindly wizard who had welcomed her on her first day addressed her quickly. "Ah, Miss Granger. Yes, I wanted to talk to you."

Hermione smiled. There were a number of parchments stacked on his desk, along with a sealed letter. "Is there a document you want me to retrieve, Sir?"

The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot nodded. "There are a few files in the archives I need to access. This falls outside of normal procedure, but it is quite urgent."

"What files would they be?" she asked. Organisation system aside, it shouldn't take her too long to find anything that the Head of the Department might need.

"I need to read Pius Thicknesse's records again. You should be able to find them at the fourth level of the archives, within his trial files." The wizard steepled his hands and rested his chin on them. Leaning forwards, he met her eyes. He seemed oddly serious. "Please bring them to my office as soon as you find them, Miss Granger. Access shouldn't be a problem but do be careful."

"Of course, I'll bring them back as soon as I can."

"Thank you for your help, Miss Granger. Some new information will likely make them relevant again, thus their sudden need," the man said cheerily. "How have your first few days in our department been? Not too bad, I hope?"

"I'll admit that I didn't quite expect the archives to be organised quite in the way they are. Why alphabetically?"

The corners of Fawley's lips quirked up. "You wouldn't believe how many problems we can sometimes find with retrieval—the sorting system isn't quite the best, but it's been organised like that for decades," he said. "How has your supervisor, Marietta, been? I understand you were both classmates in Hogwarts?"

"Not as well as I hoped," Hermione said, grimacing. What could she say about how the ex-Ravenclaw had treated her? "We don't always see eye to eye."

"I'm sure you will both figure things out." The Chief Warlock smiled apologetically. "If things don't improve as time goes by, come to me and I will make sure to talk to her. You are a valued employee of the Department, Miss Granger."

The memory of Dolohov flashed through her mind, and Hermione looked away from the older man guiltily. She hadn't reported the man's appearance, but she certainly should have. "Thank you," she said.

A soft knock on the office's heavy wooden doors sounded throughout the room. "Ricbert, a moment?" a wizard said loudly. "I need to leave for Scotland to oversee the plan concerning Greyback's old pack before the morning is over."

Hermione turned to find Oeric Abbot at the door. His shoulders were raised and stiff as he clutched what unmistakably was the same silver pocket watch he had been wearing on her first day in the Department. It was open this time, if just barely, allowing a glimpse of the photograph within the cover's underside. Hermione couldn't recognise the smiling woman, but the identities of the other two people beside her were clear—the girl who had been her classmate, Hannah Abbott, and Oeric himself.

"Of course, Oeric," Fawley said. He smiled at Hermione again. "Sorry, Hermione. It seems our meeting will be cut slightly short again."

Hermione nodded. Turning around, she left the office and walked back to the archives, following the same path she had less than an hour ago. She bit her lip as ran through Oeric Abbott's apparent assignment in her mind. It was good that the issues concerning Fenrir Greyback's old pack were finally going to be addressed, given how the man had succeeded in evading capture so far. Still, the question of just what would happen to the werewolves involved—all men and women who had once been coerced by Greyback into joining his pack—didn't bode too well.

A shiver ran through her spine as she re-entered the archives. Turning left at the open archway, she entered the room that served as the storage point for files ranked at the fourth level of security. Flattening her lips as she crossed through the heavier wards set around the room, she stopped and scanned the room.

_Just where_ _will Pius Thicknesse's trial file be located at?_ she wondered. It was anyone's guess where it could have been placed under the alphabetical organisation system. Had it been classified under the man's own name, or under a different title, as a part of a larger group of files?

Hermione sighed and began to walk across the rows of shelving units, deciding to first search for the former Minister for Magic's name. When her search revealed nothing, she gradually began to look through the other rows of shelves, searching for his first name and previous positions. Eventually, a good number of minutes later, she finally came across a sizeable set of files at the end of the room. Though clearly labelled, the chosen title for the group of files—_Second Wizarding War Trials_—revealed nothing about their contents.

Kneeling down, Hermione picked up the first of the files in the set. She smiled as she saw Thicknesse' name. The file that the Chief Warlock wanted was within this collection, together with those of the other people who had been tried.

Picking up the first file, she read through the list of documents contained within. They were organised chronologically, with Thicknesse's at the very front. Following after him were Albert Runcorn's and Cornfoot's own father, along with a long list of Death Eaters and collaborators.

Flicking through the different sections of the heavy file, she soon found herself looking at the introductory notes of Pius Thicknesse's trial. Close to the top of the page, a picture from a Daily Prophet special headed the section. It was hard not to recognise it—the pale figure of the old Minister at the moment of his sentencing, when he had been condemned to the Dementor's Kiss.

Hermione swallowed and detached the section. It was all that the head of the department would need. Unbidden, however, her eyes fell on the titles of the sections following the old Minister's. The typewritten name of Dolohov stood out, along with that of other Death Eaters.

His files were quite close to Thicknesse's own, most likely due to the dates on which he and other Death Eaters had been called to stand trial. Though the surviving original members of the Knights of Walpurgis had been the first to be tried—Bedivere Avery, Livius Mulciber, and Thoros Nott—other big names had followed soon afterwards. Amongst these had been Death Eaters like Augustus Rookwood, Rabastan Lestrange—the brother of which had apparently died resisting arrest at the Battle of Hogwarts—and, finally, Dolohov himself.

Biting her lip, Hermione flicked quickly to Dolohov's file. It wasn't something she should so much as consider, but it was hard to resist the temptation. Any information on the man beyond what she already knew would be welcome, considering what he had offered.

The report heading the trial records, dated nineteen eighty-seven, appeared to be a summary of previous information on him. An extract taken from a Daily Prophet article from a year later appeared in bold underlining, with pictures of a serious-looking youth and a ragged-looking man dominating the page besides it.

_ARKADIY DOLOHOV DIES_

_Authorities have confirmed that Arkadiy Fyodorovich Dolohov, one of the oldest known servants of You-Know-Who, has passed in Azkaban due to poor health. His son Antonin, who famously took part in Death Eater attacks despite his young age, has remained incarcerated within the same prison since the discovery of his crimes in 1987…_

Hermione turned the page and began to read through what must have been one of the first reports on Antonin Dolohov. Just three years older than Bill Weasley, he had been under Ministry tutorship since the time of his father's arrest. He had been awarded a Mastery in Charms fresh out of Hogwarts due to research on warding, only to be arrested at Tintagel Island at the age of twenty.

As she read on, she found herself grimacing. His early induction into the Death Eaters at the age of fourteen or fifteen hadn't stopped him from actively participating in the war. The Russian wizard had instead managed to stand out as a brutal Death Eater with a penchant for spell creation. Over the course of the investigation following his arrest, his participation in Muggles attacks and use of illegal dark magic had been completely uncovered; with charges concerning the murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett—corroborated by Igor Karkaroff in his own trial—and of his own Ministry-posted tutors being added later. Another turn of the page revealed an additional set of reports dated from after his capture at the Department of Ministries, together with a final set of documents presented as evidence in his trial following the Battle of Hogwarts. Unlike other witches and wizards tried at the time, he had never denied anything.

Hermione shut the folder and breathed in shakily. Though the file seemed to lack the sadism Harry said was ever-present in the records of wizards like Greyback or MacNair, the clear descriptions of just what he had done were unnerving. Dolohov was, perhaps, one of the worst Death Eaters to have as an escapee. It was clear that he was dangerous, particularly due to the single-mindedness reports claimed he possessed and his magical expertise. Had he wanted to it was clear that he would have been able to kill her inside of her flat.

Why hadn't he? What could be valuable enough to risk approaching her as he had?

Placing the file back onto its shelf, Hermione stood up and pressed Thicknesse's records into her chest. Pointedly avoiding looking back at the trial records, she began walking back to Fawley's office. She had work to do.

o-o-o

Harry smiled at her as she approached him. "How was the morning, Hermione?"

Hermione smiled back. He was in his auror robes, she noticed, fingertips stained with ink. "Better than the first day, though Marietta doesn't want to make things easy for me," she said.

Her best friend frowned. "You shouldn't put up with it if she doesn't see reason."

"She still holds what happened at Hogwarts quite close to heart. If she doesn't stop, I'll tell Fawley about it." She sighed. "Same place, or are we going elsewhere today?"

Harry nodded, and soon they were walking through the hustle of ministry employees as they made their way to the Atrium's cafeteria. It was one in the afternoon, and, thus lunch break for the majority of employees.

The place proved to be as crowded as it always was when they got there, with a number of witches and wizards filling the rows of tables set across the bright, airy room. It didn't take them long to get to a table near the back. It was empty, much like it always was, and they took a seat just as a young wizard approached to take their orders.

Harry looked at her pointedly as soon as the wizard walked away. He leant forwards, lacing his fingers. "Is it true?" he asked. "How did they justify it?"

Hermione immediately knew what her friend was asking about. "It is. Alix MacMillan said it had to do with recent cuts in funding and changes in policy—only witches and wizards may be treated at St. Mungo's for longer than four years."

Harry's fingers tightened. "That's ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "Did she say nothing else? I thought the case was advancing well."

She pursed her lips. "So did I," she confessed, "but she said there was nothing to be done. She even implied I should count myself lucky to have them alive." Pausing, she looked around their table discreetly. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. "I asked her if the case details had been shared with anyone, given, you know—," she continued saying, this time lower, "—but she said that that hadn't been the case at all."

Harry frowned and leaned back. He looked surprised. "I don't understand it. That they choose to close the case now is outrageous, no matter what the rules may say. Beyond that, some information has to have gotten out too, given…" He breathed out forcefully. "_He_ knew about it."

"I know, but I don't think there's anything I can do beyond continuing the research myself."

"I know this upsets you, Hermione, but—." Harry's expression fell slightly. "Whether you manage to cure them or not, no matter what; you are like family to me and Ron. You know that, right? Always." He smiled. "If you need any help with the research, just tell me and I'll do my best to help out in any way I can."

Hermione smiled. "I know. Thank you, Harry." She leant forwards. "You'll disagree with me here, but I've been thinking that it may be in our best interests for me to accept the offer," she, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's mouth twisted downwards. Eyes darting around, he drew his wand and cast a Muffliato charm. "Take it?" he said. "Of course not! You know the things he's done. He's most likely lying, and—."

"I know that, but you haven't seen my parent's file. The book he gave me, too…" Her hands shook. "I have no idea where it got it from, but it's better than almost everything I've read on the memory charm until now."

"Hermione," Harry said tersely. "He's a death eater."

"Exactly! Dolohov escaped together with other convicted death eaters years ago, and we still know nothing at all about what they may be doing. You know that better than anyone, Harry," Hermione insisted. "I don't like the thought of this either, but even ignoring what I'd discover in relation to my parent's case. How much information would I be able to get on what they're doing? We'd have to be able to meet somewhere. That alone will be valuable information."

Her friend's expression darkened, but he didn't argue. "Still. He said he wanted information in return, didn't he?"

"He did, but if he's offering me a deal it can't be anything I'd be immediately opposed to. Besides, I can always give him watered down information if it comes to that, or even half-lies."

"I don't like this, Hermione, but I'll trust you if you decide to go ahead." Harry sighed. "Just keep me updated on what you do, alright?"

"I will, thank you," Hermione said, smiling. "I don't know what I would do without you."

"Of course," Harry said, lips quirking up. "Onto another pressing issue, though. You must have heard already about the preparations for the commemoration of the war's end are advancing."

Hermione nodded. How could she not—it was the only thing the Daily Prophet had been reporting throughout the week. "The fifth-year anniversary. Kingsley wants you there?"

"Yes, he asked me officially this morning, though he'd already warned me about it in advance." He breathed out shakily. "I don't like it—you know I don't—but after all the things we had to go through… If I can help to pacify things for Kingsley now that he's in office I won't complain, especially if it helps to bring some more change to the Ministry."

"I know." She sighed. "I'll be there too. I don't think I could avoid doing so, even if it's mostly a society event." Opening her mouth, she was about to continue when a series of loud cracking noises reverberated throughout the cafeteria. Her head whipped up in the direction the sounds had come from. She drew her wand. "What was that?"

Harry stood up, holly and phoenix feather wand ready in his hand. Around them, nervous murmurs filled the room. "I don't know." He said stiffly. "It came from outside here—from the atrium."

The loud cracks reverberated within the room again, noticeably louder. A second of silence passed before the tell-tale sound of wards crashing down filled the air, followed by screams. Harry started to run in the direction of the atrium before she could say a word, auror training obvious in the way he cut through the crowd of people. It didn't take long for Hermione to follow him. Evidence of spell damage grew the more she advanced, with most of it seeming to have come from the collapse of the wards rather than a direct attack.

It was too late by the time she got to the Atrium, though the scene that greeted her revealed more than aptly what had happened. Bright and virulent flames were licking up the fountain of the magical brethren, ready to expand further despite the ongoing attempts to contain them. The throng of people which would have normally filled the hall was nowhere to be seen. To a side, Harry was arguing with a group of aurors she didn't recognise. A few others, amongst them Stephen Cornfoot and Marcus Flint, were patrolling the perimeter.

Clenching her jaw, she searched for an indication of just what had happened. Someone had to have broken into the Ministry, but how? Not just anyone could get into the Ministry anymore. Not with the wards and security measures which had been put place after the war.

It was only once she had walked past a few straggling wizards that she saw it. A corpse, hanging from the front of the fountain of magical brethren.

Hermione felt herself grow pale. Her lower lip trembled as she walked towards the fountain. It was a man—a wizard—clothed in the distinctive robes which had been used by Death Eaters, broken mask hung from his neck. His face and features had been etched into her mind ever since the role he had played in the trials that had followed the second wizarding war. Light hair, pale complexion… there was no mistaking it.

Festus Pyrites was dead.

* * *

**A/N:** I'd like to thank all of the people that have reviewed and enjoyed this story so far, it means a lot to see comments with people's thoughts! I hope that this chapter was enjoyable. My apologies for posting it so late. I was aiming to have it fully edited a full three or two weeks ago, but with everything that's been going on the amount of work I had to do for university suddenly skyrocketed. It's finally properly done, though (and the next one shouldn't take nearly as long).

For anyone wondering, I imagine it won't be too much of a surprise-killer to say that Dolohov, along with certain other characters, will be appearing again very, very soon. This chapter marks the near end of the first part of the story, and the plot as it is properly understood will be picking up pace very soon.

In establishing the post-First Wizarding War timeline, you'll notice that I took certain liberties with the dates in which events took place and the ages of certain characters (Dolohov for now, though this'll feed into the ages of certain other characters). This isn't simply gratuitous changing, and I can promise that this all leads somewhere. As a bit of an incidental detail, my giving the full name of Dolohov's father establishes his own full name completely too.

**Update #1:** Text revised and edited as of 29/12/2020.


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